Part IV.Gipsy Life in a Variety of Aspects.

A Respectable Gipsy and his Family “on the Road”

“‘Give the snakes and toads a twist,And banish them for ever,’

“‘Give the snakes and toads a twist,And banish them for ever,’

sang Zachariah, ever and anon giving similar wild snatches.  Then Esmeralda would rocker about being the wife of the Romany Rye (Gipsy gentleman) and as she proudly paced along in her heavy boots, she pictured in imagery the pleasant life she should lead as her Romany Rye’s joovel, monshi, or somi.  She was full of fun, yet there was nothing in her fanciful delineations which could offend us.  They were but the foam of a crested wave, soon dissipated in the air.  They were the evanescent creations of a lively, open-hearted girl—wild notes trilled by the bird of the forest.  We came again into the open valley.  Down a meadow gushed a small streamlet which splashed from a wooden spout on to the roadside.”  “The spot where we pitched our tents was near a sort of small natural terrace, at the summit of a steep slope above the road, backed by a mossy bank, shaded by brushwood and skirting the dense foliage of the dark forest of pine and fir, above our camp.”  “We gave two of the peasants some brandy and tobacco.”  “Then all our visitors left, except four interesting young peasant girls, who still lingered.”  “They had all pleasant voices.”  “We listened to them with much pleasure; there was so much sweetness and feeling in their melody.  Zachariah made up for his brother’s timidity.  Full of fun, what dreadful faces the young Gipsy would pull, they were absolutely frightful; then he would twist and turn his body into all sorts of serpentine contortions.  If spoken to he would suddenly, with a hop, skip, and a jump alight in his tent as if he had tumbled from the sky, and, sitting bolt upright, make a hideous face till his mouth nearly stretched from ear to ear, while his dark eyes sparkled with wild excitement, he would sing—

“‘Dawdy!  Dawdy! dit a keiRockerony, fake your bosh!’

“‘Dawdy!  Dawdy! dit a keiRockerony, fake your bosh!’

“At one time a woman brought an exceedingly fat child for us to look at, and she wanted Esmeralda to suckle it, which was, of course, hastily declined.  We began to ask ourselves if this was forest seclusion.  Still our visitors were kind, good-humoured people, and some drank our brandy, and some smoked our English tobacco.  After our tea, at five o’clock, we had a pleasant stroll.  Once more we were with Nature.  There we lingered till the scenes round us, in their vivid beauty, seemed graven deep in our thought.  How graphic are the lines of Moore:—

“‘The turf shall be my fragrant shrine,My temple, Lord, that arch of Thine,My censor’s breath the mountain airs,And silent thoughts my only prayers.“‘My choir shall be the moonlight waves,When murm’ring homeward to their caves,Or when the stillness of the seaEven more of music breathes of Thee!’

“‘The turf shall be my fragrant shrine,My temple, Lord, that arch of Thine,My censor’s breath the mountain airs,And silent thoughts my only prayers.

“‘My choir shall be the moonlight waves,When murm’ring homeward to their caves,Or when the stillness of the seaEven more of music breathes of Thee!’

How appropriate were the words of the great poet to our feelings.  We went and sat down.”  “As we were seated by our camp fire, a tall, old man, looking round our tents, came and stood contemplating us at our tea.  He looked as if he thought we were enjoying a life of happiness.  Nor was he wrong.  He viewed us with a pleased and kindly expression, as he seemed half lost in contemplation.  We sent for the flask of brandy.  Returning to our tents we put on our Napoleon boots and made some additions to our toilette.”  Of course, kind Mr. Petalengro would assist lovely Esmeralda with hers.  “Whilst we were engaged some women came to our tents.  The curiosity of the sex was exemplified, for they were dying to look behind the tent partition which screened us from observation.  We did not know what they expected to see; one, bolder than the rest, could not resist the desire to look behind the scenes, and hastily drew back and dropped the curtain, when we said rather sharply, ‘Nei! nei!’  Esmeralda shortly afterwards appeared in her blue dress and silver buttons.  Then we all seated ourselves on a mossy bank, on the side of the terrace, with a charming view across the valley of the Logan.  At eight o’clock the music commenced.  The sun shone beautifully, and the mosquitoes and midges bit right and left with hungry determination.  We sat in a line on the soft mossy turf of the grassy slope, sheltered by foliage.  Esmeralda and Noah with their tambourines, myself with the castanets, and Zachariah with his violin.  Some peasant women and girls came up after we had played a short time.  It was a curious scene.  Our tents were pleasantly situated on an open patch of green sward, surrounded by border thickets, near the sunny bank and the small flat terrace.  The rising hills and rugged ravines on the other side of the valley all gave a singular andromantic beauty to the lovely view.  Although our Gipsies played with much spirit until nine o’clock, none of the peasants would dance.  At nine o’clock our music ceased, and we all retired to our tents with the intention of going to bed.  When we were going into our tents, a peasant and several others with him, who had just arrived, asked us to play again.  At length, observing several peasant girls were much disappointed, we decided to play once more.  It was past nine o’clock when we again took up our position on the mossy bank; so we danced, and the peasant girls, until nearly ten o’clock.  Once we nearly whirled ourself and Esmeralda over the slope into the road below.  Esmeralda’s dark eyes flashed fire and sparkled with merriment and witchery.”

“The bacon and fish at dinner were excellent; we hardly knew which was best.  A peasant boy brought us a bundle of sticks for our fire.  The sun became exceedingly hot.  Esmeralda and myself went and sat in some shade near our tents.”  “Noah stood in the shade blacking his boots, and observed to Esmeralda, ‘I shall not help my wife as Mr. Petalengro does you.’  ‘Well,’ said Esmeralda, ‘what is a wife for?’  ‘For!’ retorted Noah, sharply, giving his boot an extra brush, ‘why, to wait upon her husband.’  ‘And what,’ said Esmeralda, ‘is a husband for?’  ‘What’s a husband for!’ exclaimed Noah, with a look of profound pity for his sister’s ignorance, ‘why, to eat and drink, and look on.’”  Mr. Petalengro goes on to say: “It would seem to us that the more rude energy a man has in his composition the more a woman will be made to take her position as helpmate.  It is always a mark of great civilisation and the effeminacy of a people when women obtain the undue mastery of men.”  And he farther goes on to say: “We were just having a romp with Esmeralda and her two brothers as we were packing up our things, and a merry laugh, when some men appeared at the fence near our camping-ground.  We little think,” says Mr. Petalengro, “how much we can do in this world to lighten a lonely wayfarer’s heart.”

A Bachelor Gipsy’s Bedroom

Esmeralda and Mr. Petalengro tell each other their fortunes.  “Esmeralda and myself were sitting in our tents.  Then the thought occurred to her that we should tell her fortune.  ‘Your fortune must be a good one,’ said we, laughing; ‘let me see your hand and your lines of life.’  We shall never forget Esmeralda.  She looked so earnestly as we regarded attentively the line of her open hand.”  (Mr. Petalengro does not say that tears were to be seen trickling down those lovely cheeks of Esmeralda while this fortune-telling, nonsensical farce was being played out.)  “Then we took her step by step through some scenes of her supposed future.  We did not tell all.  The rest was reserved for another day.  There was a serious look on her countenance as we ended; but, reader, such secrets should not be revealed.  Esmeralda commenced to tell our fortunes.  We were interested to know what she would say.  We cast ourselves on the waves of fate.  The Gipsy raised her dark eyes from our hand as she looked earnestly in the face.  You are a young gentleman of good connections.  Many lands you have seen.  But, young man, something tells me you are of a wavering disposition.’”  And then charming Esmeralda would strike up “The Little Gipsy”—

“My father’s the King of the Gipsies, that’s true,My mother she learned me some camping to do;With a packel on my back, and they all wish me well,I started up to London some fortunes for to tell.“As I was a walking up fair London streets,Two handsome young squires I chanced for to meet,They viewed my brown cheeks, and they liked them so well,They said ‘My little Gipsy girl, can you my fortune tell?’“‘Oh yes! kind Sir, give me hold of your hand,For you have got honours, both riches and land;Of all the pretty maidens you must lay aside,For it is the little Gipsy girl that is to be your bride.’“He led me o’er the Mils, through valleys deep I’m sure,Where I’d servants for to wait on me, and open me the door;A rich bed of down to lay my head upon—In less than nine months after I could his fortune tell.“Once I was a Gipsy girl, but now a squire’s bride,I’ve servants for to wait on me, and in my carriage ride.The bells shall ring so merrily, sweet music they shall play,And will crown the glad tidings of that lucky, lucky day.”

“My father’s the King of the Gipsies, that’s true,My mother she learned me some camping to do;With a packel on my back, and they all wish me well,I started up to London some fortunes for to tell.

“As I was a walking up fair London streets,Two handsome young squires I chanced for to meet,They viewed my brown cheeks, and they liked them so well,They said ‘My little Gipsy girl, can you my fortune tell?’

“‘Oh yes! kind Sir, give me hold of your hand,For you have got honours, both riches and land;Of all the pretty maidens you must lay aside,For it is the little Gipsy girl that is to be your bride.’

“He led me o’er the Mils, through valleys deep I’m sure,Where I’d servants for to wait on me, and open me the door;A rich bed of down to lay my head upon—In less than nine months after I could his fortune tell.

“Once I was a Gipsy girl, but now a squire’s bride,I’ve servants for to wait on me, and in my carriage ride.The bells shall ring so merrily, sweet music they shall play,And will crown the glad tidings of that lucky, lucky day.”

The drawback to this evening’s whirligig farce was that the mosquitoes determined to come in for a share.  These little, nipping, biting creatures preferred settling upon young blood, full of life and activity, existing under artificial circumstances, to the carcase of a dead horse lying in the knacker’s yard.  To prevent these little stingers drawing the sap of life from the sweet bodies of these pretty, innocent, lovable creatures, the Gipsies acted a very cruel part in dressing their faces over with a brown liquid, called the “tincture of cedar.”  It is not stated whether the “tincture of cedar “was made in Shropshire or Lebanon, nor whether it was extracted from roses, or a decoction of thistles.  Alas, alas! how fickle human life is!  How often we say and do things in jest and fun which turn out to be stern realities in another form.

“As we looked upon the church and parsonage, surrounded as they were by the modern park, with the broad silver lake near, the rising mountains on all sides, and the clear blue sky above, our senses seemed entranced with the passing beauty of the scene.  It was one of those glimpses of perfect nature which casts the anchor deep in memory, and leaves a lasting impression of bygone days.”  And then Esmeralda danced as she sang the words of her song; the words not in English are her own, for I cannot find them even in the slang Romany, and what she meant by her bosh is only known to herself.

“Shula gang shaugh gig a magala,I’ll set me down on yonder hill;And there I’ll cry my fill,And every tear shall turn a mill.Shula gang shaugh gig a magalaTo my Uskadina slawn slawn.“Shula gang shaugh gig a magala,I’ll buy me a petticoat and dye it red,And round this world I’ll beg my bread;The lad I love is far away.Shula gang shaugh gig a magalaTo my Uskadina slawn slawn.“Shul shul gang along with me,Gang along me, I’ll gang along with you,I’ll buy you a petticoat and dye it in the blue,Sweet William shall kiss you in the rue.Shula gang shaugh gig a magalaTo my Uskadina slawn slawn.”

“Shula gang shaugh gig a magala,I’ll set me down on yonder hill;And there I’ll cry my fill,And every tear shall turn a mill.Shula gang shaugh gig a magalaTo my Uskadina slawn slawn.

“Shula gang shaugh gig a magala,I’ll buy me a petticoat and dye it red,And round this world I’ll beg my bread;The lad I love is far away.Shula gang shaugh gig a magalaTo my Uskadina slawn slawn.

“Shul shul gang along with me,Gang along me, I’ll gang along with you,I’ll buy you a petticoat and dye it in the blue,Sweet William shall kiss you in the rue.Shula gang shaugh gig a magalaTo my Uskadina slawn slawn.”

“We were supremely happy,” says Mr. Petalengro, “in our wandering existence.  We contrasted in our semi-consciousness of mind our absence from a thousand anxious cares which crowd upon the social position of those who take part in an overwrought state of extreme civilisation.  How long we should have continued our half-dormant reflections which might have added a few more notes upon the philosophy of life, we knew not, but we were roused by the rumble of a stolk-jaerre along the road.”

“For the dance no music can be better than that of a Gipsy band; there is life and animation in it which carries you away.  If you have danced to it yourself, especially in aczardas,[176]then to hear the stirring tones without involuntarily springing up is, I assert, an absolute impossibility.”  Poor, deluded mortals, I am afraid they will find—

“Nothing but leaves!Sad memory weavesNo veil to hide the past;And as we trace our weary way,Counting each lost and misspent day,Sadly we find at last,Nothing but leaves!”

“Nothing but leaves!Sad memory weavesNo veil to hide the past;And as we trace our weary way,Counting each lost and misspent day,Sadly we find at last,Nothing but leaves!”

The converse of all this artificial and misleading Gipsy life is to be seen in hard fate and fact at our own doors—“Look on this picture and then on that.”

“There is a land, a sunny land,Whose skies are ever bright;Where evening shadows never fall:The Saviour is its light.”“There’s a land that is fairer than day,And by faith we can see it afar;For the Father waits over the wayTo prepare us a dwelling-place thereIn the sweet by-and-bye.”

“There is a land, a sunny land,Whose skies are ever bright;Where evening shadows never fall:The Saviour is its light.”

“There’s a land that is fairer than day,And by faith we can see it afar;For the Father waits over the wayTo prepare us a dwelling-place thereIn the sweet by-and-bye.”

George Borrow, during his labours among the Gipsies of Spain forty years ago, did not find much occasion for rollicking fun, merriment, and boisterous laughter; his path was not one of roses, over mossy banks, among the honeysuckles and daisies, by the side of running rivulets warbling over the smooth pebbles; sitting among the primroses, listening to the enchanting voices of the thousand forest and valley songsters; gazing at the various and beautiful kinds of foliage on the hill-sides as the thrilling strains of music pealed forth from the sweet voice of Esmeralda and her tambourine.  No, no, no!  George Borrow had to face the hard lot of all those who start on the path of usefulness, honour, and heaven.  Hard fare, disappointment, opposition, few friends, life in danger, his path was rough and covered with stones; his flowers were thistles, his songs attended with tears, and sorrow filled his heart.  But note his object, and mark his end.  In speaking of some of the difficulties in his travels, he says:—“My time lay heavily on my hands, my only source of amusement consisting in the conversation of the woman telling of the wonderful tales of the land of the Moors—prison escapes, thievish feats, and one or two poisoning adventures in which she had been engaged.  There was something very wild in her gestures.  She goggled frightfully with her eyes.”  And thenspeaking of the old Gipsy woman whom he went to see:—“Here, thrusting her hand into her pocket, she discharged a handful of some kind of dust or snuff into the fellow’s face.  He stamped and roared, but was for some time held fast by the two Gipsy men; he extricated himself, however, and attempted to unsheath a knife which he wore in his girdle; but the two young Gipsies flung themselves upon him like furies.”

Borrow says, after travelling a long distance by night, and setting out again the next morning to travel thirteen leagues:—“Throughout the day a drizzling rain was falling, which turned the dust of the roads into mud and mire.  Towards evening we reached a moor—a wild place enough, strewn with enormous stones and rocks.  The wind had ceased, but a strong wind rose and howled at our backs.  The sun went down, and dark night presently came over us.  We proceeded for nearly three hours, until we heard the barking of dogs, and perceived a light or two in the distance.  ‘That is Trujillo,’ said Antonio, who had not spoken for a long time.  ‘I am glad of it,’ I replied; ‘I am so thoroughly tired, I shall sleep soundly in Trujillo.’  That is as it may be.  We soon entered the town, which appeared dark and gloomy enough.  I followed close behind the Gipsy, who led the way, I knew not whither, through dismal streets and dark places where cats were squalling.  ‘Here is the house,’ said he at last, dismounting before a low, mean hut.  He knocked, but no answer.  He knocked again, but no answer.  ‘There can be no difficulty,’ said I, ‘with respect to what we have to do.  If your friends are gone out, it is easy enough to go to a posada.’  ‘You know not what you say,’ replied the Gipsy.  ‘I dare not go to the mesuna, nor enter any house in Trujillo save this, and this is shut.  Well, there is no remedy; we must move on; and, between ourselves, the sooner we leave the place the better.  My own brother was garroted at Trujillo.’  He lighted a cigar by means of a steel and yesca, sprung on hismule, and proceeded through streets and lanes equally dismal as those through which we had already travelled.”  Mr. Borrow goes on to say:—“I confess I did not much like this decision of the Gipsy; I felt very slight inclination to leave the town behind, and to venture into unknown places in the dark of the night, amidst rain and mist—for the wind had now dropped, and the rain again began to fall briskly.  I was, moreover, much fatigued, and wished for nothing better than to deposit myself in some comfortable manger, where I might sink to sleep lulled by the pleasant sound of horses and mules despatching their provender.  I had, however, put myself under the direction of the Gipsy, and I was too old a traveller to quarrel with my guide under present circumstances.  I therefore followed close to his crupper, our only light being the glow emitted from the Gipsy’s cigar.  At last he flung it from his mouth into a puddle, and we were then in darkness.  We proceeded in this manner for a long time.  The Gipsy was silent.  I myself was equally so.  The rain descended more and more.  I sometimes thought I heard doleful noises, something like the hooting of owls.  ‘This is a strange night to be wandering abroad in,’ I at length said to Antonio, the Gipsy.  (The Gipsy word for Antonio is ‘Devil.’)  ‘It is, brother,’ said the Gipsy; ‘but I would sooner be abroad in such a night, and in such places, than in the estaripel of Trujillo.’

“We wandered at least a league further, and now appeared to be near a wood, for I could occasionally distinguish the trunks of immense trees.  Suddenly Antonio stopped his mule.  ‘Look, brother,’ said he, ‘to the left, and tell me if you do not see a light; your eyes are sharper than mine.’  I did as he commanded me.  At first I could see nothing, but, moving a little further on, I plainly saw a large light at some distance, seemingly amongst the trees.  ‘Yonder cannot be a lamp or candle,’ said I; ‘it is more like the blaze of a fire.’  ‘Very likely,’ said Antonio.  ‘There are no queres (houses) in this place; it is doubtless a fire made bydurotunes (shepherds); let us go and join them, for, as you say, it is doleful work wandering about at night amidst rain and mire.’

“We dismounted and entered what I now saw was a forest, leading the animals cautiously amongst the trees and brushwood.  In about five minutes we reached a small open space, at the farther side of which, at the foot of a large cork-tree, a fire was burning, and by it stood or sat two or three figures.  They had heard our approach, and one of them now exclaimed, ‘Quien Vive?’  ‘I know that voice,’ said Antonio, and, leaving the horse with me, rapidly advanced towards the fire.  Presently I heard an ‘Ola!’ and a laugh, and soon the voice of Antonio summoned me to advance.  On reaching the fire, I found two dark lads, and a still darker woman of about forty, the latter seated on what appeared to be horse or mule furniture.  I likewise saw a horse and two donkeys tethered to the neighbouring trees.  It was, in fact, a Gipsy bivouac . . . ‘Come forward, brother, and show yourself,’ said Antonio to me; ‘you are amongst friends; these are of the Errate, the very people whom I expected to find at Trujillo, and in whose house we should have slept.’

“‘And what,’ said I, ‘could have induced them to leave their house in Trujillo and come into this dark forest, in the midst of wind and rain, to pass the night?’

“‘They come on business of Egypt, brother, doubtless,’ replied Antonio, ‘and that business is none of ours.  Calla boca!  It is lucky we have found them here, else we should have had no supper, and our horses no corn.’

“‘My ro is prisoner at the village yonder,’ said the woman, pointing with her hand in a particular direction; ‘he is prisoner yonder for choring a mailla (stealing a donkey); we are come to see what we can do in his behalf; and where can we lodge better than in this forest, where there is nothing to pay?  It is not the first time, I trow, that Caloré have slept at the root of a tree.’

“One of the striplings now gave us barley for our animals in a large bag, into which we successively introduced their heads, allowing the famished creatures to regale themselves till we conceived that they had satisfied their hunger.  There was a puchero simmering at the fire, half-fall of bacon, garbanzos, and other provisions; this was emptied into a large wooden platter, and out of this Antonio and myself supped; the other Gipsies refused to join us, giving us to understand that they had eaten before our arrival; they all, however, did justice to the leathern bottle of Antonio, which, before his departure from Merida, he had the precaution to fill.

“I was by this time completely overcome with fatigue and sleep.  Antonio flung me an immense horse-cloth, of which he bore more than one beneath the huge cushion on which he rode.  In this I wrapped myself, and placing my head upon a bundle, and my feet as near as possible to the fire, I lay down.”

How delightful and soul-inspiring it would have been to the weary pilgrim, jaded in the cause of the poor Gipsies, if Antonio’s heart had been full of religious zeal and fervour, and Hubert Petalengro and Esmeralda, their souls filled to overflowing with the love of God, had been by the side of the camp-fire, and the trio had struck up with their sweet voices, as the good man was drawing his weary legs and cold feet together before the embers of the dying Gipsy fire—

“Guide me, O thou great Jehovah,Pilgrim through this barren land;I am weak, but Thou art mighty,Hold me with Thy powerful hand.Bread of heaven, feed me till I want no more.“Open now the crystal fountainWhence the healing waters flow;Let the fiery, cloudy pillars,Lead me all my journey through.Strong Deliverer, be Thou still my strength and shield.”

“Guide me, O thou great Jehovah,Pilgrim through this barren land;I am weak, but Thou art mighty,Hold me with Thy powerful hand.Bread of heaven, feed me till I want no more.

“Open now the crystal fountainWhence the healing waters flow;Let the fiery, cloudy pillars,Lead me all my journey through.Strong Deliverer, be Thou still my strength and shield.”

“Antonio and the other Gipsies remained seated by the fire conversing.  I listened for a moment to what they said, but I did not perfectly understand it, and what I did understand by no means interested me.  The rain still drizzled, but I heeded it not, and was soon asleep.

“The sun was just appearing as I awoke.  I made several efforts before I could rise from the ground; my limbs were quite stiff, and my hair was covered with rime, for the rain had ceased, and a rather severe frost set in.  I looked around me, but could see neither Antonio nor the Gipsies; the animals of the latter had likewise disappeared, so had the horse which I had hitherto rode; the mule, however, of Antonio still remained fastened to the tree.  The latter circumstance quieted some apprehensions which were beginning to arise in my mind.  ‘They are gone on some business of Egypt,’ I said to myself, ‘and will return anon.’  I gathered together the embers of the fire, and heaping upon them sticks and branches, soon succeeded in calling forth a blaze, beside which I again placed the puchero, with what remained of the provision of last night.  I waited for a considerable time in expectation of the return of my companions, but as they did not appear, I sat down and breakfasted.  Before I had well finished I heard the noise of a horse approaching rapidly, and presently Antonio made his appearance amongst the trees, with some agitation in his countenance.  He sprang from the horse, and instantly proceeded to untie the mule.  ‘Mount, brother, mount!’ said he, pointing to the horse; ‘I went with the Callee and her chabés to the village where the ro is in trouble; the chino-baro, however, seized them at once with their cattle, and would have laid hands also on me; but I set spurs to the grasti, gave him the bridle, and was soon far away.  Mount, brother, mount, or we shall have the whole rusticcanailleupon us in a twinkling—it is such a bad place.’”

I almost imagine Borrow would have said, under thecircumstances, as he was putting his foot into the stirrup to mount his horse to fly for his life into the wild regions of an unknown country:—

“Jesus, lover of my soul,Let me to Thy bosom fly;While the nearer waters roll,While the tempest still is high.Hide me, O my Saviour, hide,Till the storm of life is past,Safe into the haven guide,Oh, receive my soul at last.“Other refuge have I none,Hangs my helpless soul on Thee,Leave, O leave me not alone,Still support and comfort me.All my trust on Thee is stayed,All my help from Thee I bring,Cover my defenceless head,With the shadow of Thy wing.”

“Jesus, lover of my soul,Let me to Thy bosom fly;While the nearer waters roll,While the tempest still is high.Hide me, O my Saviour, hide,Till the storm of life is past,Safe into the haven guide,Oh, receive my soul at last.

“Other refuge have I none,Hangs my helpless soul on Thee,Leave, O leave me not alone,Still support and comfort me.All my trust on Thee is stayed,All my help from Thee I bring,Cover my defenceless head,With the shadow of Thy wing.”

Sir Walter Scott, in “Guy Mannering,” speaking of the dark deeds of the Gipsies, says:—“The idea of being dragged out of his miserable concealment by wretches whose trade was that of midnight murder, without weapons or the slightest means of defence, except entreaties which would be only their sport, and cries for help which could never reach other ear than their own—his safety intrusted to the precarious compassion of a being associated with these felons, and whose trade of rapine and imposture must have hardened her against every human feeling—the bitterness of his emotions almost choked him.  He endeavoured to read in her withered and dark countenance, as the lamp threw its light upon her features, something that promised those feelings of compassion which females, even in their most degraded state, can seldom altogether smother.  There was no such touch of humanity about this woman.”

“‘Never fear,’ said the old Gipsy man, ‘Meg’s true-bred; she’s the last in the gang that will start; but she has somequeer ways, and often cuts queer words.’  With more of this gibberish, they continued the conversation, rendering it thus, even to each other, a dark, obscure dialect, eked out by significant nods and signs, but never expressing distinctly or in plain language the subject on which it turned.”

G. P. Whyte-Melville speaks of the Russian Gipsies in the language of fiction in his “Interpreter” as follows:—“The morning sun smiles upon a motley troop journeying towards the Danube.  Two or three lithe, supple urchins, bounding and dancing along with half-naked bodies, and bright black eyes shining through knotted elf-locks, form the advanced guard.  Half-a-dozen donkeys seem to carry the whole property of the tribe.  The main body consists of sinewy, active-looking men, and strikingly handsome girls, all walking with the free, graceful air and elastic gait peculiar to those whose lives are passed entirely in active exercise, under no roof but that of heaven.  Dark-browed women in the very meridian of beauty bring up the rear, dragging or carrying a race of swarthy progeny, all alike distinguished for the sparkling eyes and raven hair, which, with a cunning nothing can overreach, and a nature nothing can tame, seem to be the peculiar inheritance of the Gipsy.  Their costume is striking, not to say grotesque.  Some of the girls, and all the matrons, bind their brows with various coloured handkerchiefs, which form a very picturesque and not unbecoming head-gear; whilst in a few instances coins even of gold are strung amongst the jetty locks of the Zingyni beauties.  The men are not so particular in their attire.  One sinewy fellow wears only a goatskin shirt and a string of beads round his neck, but the generality are clad in the coarse cloth of the country, much tattered, and bearing evident symptoms of weather and wear.  The little mischievous urchins who are clinging round their mothers’ necks, or dragging back from their mothers’ hands, and holding on to their mothers’ skirts, are almost naked.  Small heads and hands and feet, all the marks of what we areaccustomed to term high birth, are hereditary among the Gipsies; and we doubt if the Queen of the South herself was a more queenly-looking personage than the dame now marching in the midst of the throng, and conversing earnestly with her companion, a resolute-looking man scarce entering upon the prime of life, with a Gipsy complexion, but a bearing in which it is not difficult to recognise the soldier.  He is talking to his protectress—for such she is—with a military frankness and vivacity, which even to that royal personage, accustomed though she be to exact all the respect due to her rank, appear by no means displeasing.  The lady is verging on the autumn of her charms (their summer must have been scorching indeed!), and though a masculine beauty, is a beauty nevertheless.  Black-browed is she, and deep-coloured, with eyes of fire, and locks of jet, even now untinged with grey.  Straight and regular are her features, and the wide mouth, with its strong, even dazzling teeth, betokens an energy and force of will which would do credit to the other sex.  She has the face of a woman that would dare much, labour much, everything butlovemuch.  She ought to be a queen, and sheisone, none the less despotic for ruling over a tribe of Gipsies instead of a civilised community . . .

“‘Every Gipsy can tell fortunes; mine has been told many a time, but it never came true.’

“She was studying the lines on his palm with earnest attention.  She raised her dark eyes angrily to his face.

“‘Blind! blind!’ she answered, in a low, eager tone.  ‘The best of you cannot see a yard upon your way.  Look at that white road, winding and winding many a mile before us upon the plain.  Because it is flat and soft and smooth as far as we can see, will there be no hills on our journey, no rocks to cut our feet, no thorns to tear our limbs?  Can you see the Danube rolling on far, far before us?  Can you see the river you will have to cross some day, or can you tell me where it leads?  I have the map of our journey here in my brain; I have the map of your career here on yourhand.  Once more I say, when the chiefs are in council, and the hosts are melting like snow before the sun, and the earth quakes, and the heavens are filled with thunder, and the shower that falls scorches and crushes and blasts—remember me!  I follow the line of wealth: Man of gold! spoil on; here a horse, there a diamond; hundreds to uphold the right, thousands to spare the wrong; both hands full, and broad lands near a city of palaces, and a king’s favour, and a nation of slaves beneath thy foot.  I follow the line of pleasure: costly amber; rich embroidery; dark eyes melting for the Croat; glances unveiled for the shaven head, many and loving and beautiful; a garland of roses, all for one—rose by rose plucked and withered and thrown away; one tender bud remaining; cherish it till it blows, and wear it till it dies.  I follow the line of blood:—it leads towards the rising sun—charging squadrons with lances in rest, and a wild shout in a strange tongue; and the dead wrapped in grey, with charm and amulet that were powerless to save; and hosts of many nations gathered by the sea—pestilence, famine, despair, and victory.  Rising on the whirlwind, chief among chiefs, the honoured of leaders, the counsellor of princes—remember me!  But ha! the line is crossed.  Beware! trust not the sons of the adopted land; when the lily is on thy breast, beware of the dusky shadow on the wall! beware, and remember me!’ . . .

“I proffered my hand readily to the Gipsy, and crossed it with one of the two pieces of silver which constituted the whole of my worldly wealth.  The Gipsy laughed, and began to prophesy in German.  There are some events a child never forgets; and I remember every word she said as well as if it had been spoken yesterday.

“‘Over the sea, and again over the sea; thou shalt know grief and hardship and losses, and the dove shall be driven from its nest.  And the dove’s heart shall become like the eagle’s, that flies alone, and fleshes her beak in the slain.  Beat on, though the poor wings be bruised by the tempest,and the breast be sore, and the heart sink; beat on against the wind, and seek no shelter till thou find thy resting-place at last.  The time will come—only beat on.’

“The woman laughed as she spoke; but there was a kindly tone in her voice and a pitying look in her bright eyes that went straight to my heart.  Many a time since, in life, when the storm has indeed been boisterous and the wings so weary, have I thought of those words of encouragement, ‘The time will come—beat on.’ . . .

“‘Thou shalt be a “De Rohan,” my darling, and I can promise thee no brighter lot—broad acres, and blessings from the poor, and horses, and wealth, and honours.  And the sword shall spare thee, and the battle turn aside to let thee pass.  And thou shalt wed a fair bride with dark eyes and a queenly brow; but beware of St. Hubert’s Day.  Birth and burial, birth and burial—beware of St. Hubert’s Day.’”

Disraeli, speaking of the Gipsies in his “Venetia,” says:—“As Cadurcis approached he observed some low tents, and in a few minutes he was in the centre of an encampment of Gipsies.  He was for a moment somewhat dismayed, for he had been brought up with the usual terror of these wild people; nevertheless he was not unequal to the occasion.  He was surrounded in an instant, but only with women and children, for Gipsy men never immediately appear.  They smiled with their bright eyes, and the flashes of the watch-fire threw a lurid glare over their dark and flashing countenances; they held out their practised hands; they uttered unintelligible, but not unfriendly sounds.”

Matilda Betham Edwards, in her remarks upon Gipsies, says:—“Your pulses are quickened to Gipsy pitch, you are ready to make love or war, to heal and slay, to wander to the world’s end, to be outlawed and hunted down, to dare and do anything for the sake of the sweet, untramelled life of the tent, the bright blue sky, the mountain air, the free savagedom, the joyous dance, the passionate friendship, the fiery love.”

I come now to notice what a few of the poets have said about these ignorant, nomadic tribes, who have been skulking and flitting about in our midst, since the days of Borrow, Roberts, Hoyland, and Crabb—a period of over forty years.

“He grows, like the young oak, healthy and broad,With no home but the forest, no bed but the sward;Half-naked he wades in the limpid stream,Or dances about in the scorching beam.The dazzling glare of the banquet sheenHath never fallen on him I ween,But fragments are spread, and the wood pine piled,And sweet is the meal of the Gipsy child.”—Eliza Cook.“The Gipsy eye, bright as the starThat sends its light from heaven afar,Wild with the strains of thy guitar,This heart with rapture fill.Then, maiden fair, beneath this star,Come, touch me with the light guitar.Thy brow unworked by lines of care,Decked with locks of raven hair,Seems ever beautiful and fairAt moonlight’s stilly hour.What bliss! beside the leafy maze,Illumined by the moon’s pale rays,On thy sweet face to sit and gaze,Thou wild, uncultured flower.Then, maiden fair, beneath this star,Come, touch me with the light guitar.”Hubert Smith: “Tent Life in Norway.”“From every place condemned to roam,In every place we seek a home;These branches form our summer roof,By thick grown leaves made weather-proof;In shelt’ring nooks and hollow ways,We cheerily pass our winter days.Come circle round the Gipsy’s fire,Come circle round the Gipsy’s fire,Our songs, our stories never tire,Our songs, our stories never tire.”—Reeve.“Where is the little Gipsy’s home?Under the spreading greenwood tree,Wherever she may roam,Wherever that tree may be.Roaming the world o’er,Crossing the deep blue sea,She finds on every shore,A home among the free,A home among the free,Ah, voilà la Gitana, voilà la Gitana.”—Halliday.“He checked his steed, and sighed to markHer coral lips, her eyes so dark,And stately bearing—as she had beenBred up in courts, and born a queen.Again he came, and again he came,Each day with a warmer, a wilder flame,And still again—till sleep by nightFor Judith’s sake fled his pillow quite.”—Delta.“A race that lives on prey, as foxes do,With stealthy, petty rapine; so despised,It is not persecuted, only spurned,Crushed under foot, warred on by chance like rats,Or swarming flies, or reptiles of the sea,Dragged in the net unsought and flung far off,To perish as they may.”George Eliot: “The Spanish Gipsies,” 1865.“Help me wonder, here’s a booke,Where I would for ever looke.Never did a Gipsy traceSmoother lines in hands or face;Venus here doth Saturne moveThat you should be the Queene of Love.”Ben Jonson.“Fond dreamer, pause! why floats the silvery breathOf thin, light smoke from yonder bank of heath?What forms are those beneath the shaggy trees,In tattered tent, scarce sheltered from the breeze;The hoary father and the ancient dame,The squalid children, cowering o’er the flame?Those were not born by English hearths to dwell,Or heed the carols of the village bell;Those swarthy lineaments, that wild attire,Those stranger tones, bespeak an eastern sire;Bid us in home’s most favoured precincts traceThe houseless children of a homeless race;And as in warning vision seem to showThat man’s best joys are drowned by shades of woe.“Pilgrims of Earth, who hath not owned the spellThat ever seems around your tents to dwell;Solemn and thrilling as the nameless dreadThat guards the chambers of the silent dead!The sportive child, if near your camp he stray,Stands tranced with fear, and heeds no more his play;To gain your magic aid, the love-sick swain,With hasty footsteps threads the dusky lane;The passing traveller lingers, half in sport,And half in awe beside your savage court,While the weird hags explore his palm to spellWhat varied fates these mystic lines foretell.“The murmuring streams your minstrel songs supply,The moss your couch, the oak your canopy;The sun awakes you as with trumpet-call,Lightly ye spring from slumber’s gentle thrall;Eve draws her curtain o’er the burning west,Like forest birds ye sink at once to rest.“Free as the winds that through the forest rush,Wild as the flowers that by the wayside blush,Children of nature wandering to and fro,Man knows not whence ye came, nor where ye go;Like foreign weeds cast upon Western strands,Which stormy waves have borne from unknown lands;Like the murmuring shells to fancy’s ears that tellThe mystic secrets of their ocean cell.“Drear was the scene—a dark and troublous time—The Heaven all gloom, the wearied Earth all crime;Men deemed they saw the unshackled powers of illRage in that storm, and work their perfect will.Then like a traveller, when the wild wind blows,And black night flickers with the driving snows,A stranger people, ’mid that murky gloom,Knocked at the gates of awe-struck Christendom!No clang of arms, no din of battle roaredRound the still march of that mysterious horde;Weary and sad arrayed in pilgrim’s guise,They stood and prayed, nor raised their suppliant eyes.At once to Europe’s hundred shores they came,In voice, in feature, and in garb the same.Mother and babe and youth, and hoary age,The haughty chieftain and the wizard sage;At once in every land went up the cry,‘Oh! fear us not—receive us or we die!’”Dean Stanley’s Prize Poem, 1837: “The Gipsies.”

“He grows, like the young oak, healthy and broad,With no home but the forest, no bed but the sward;Half-naked he wades in the limpid stream,Or dances about in the scorching beam.The dazzling glare of the banquet sheenHath never fallen on him I ween,But fragments are spread, and the wood pine piled,And sweet is the meal of the Gipsy child.”—Eliza Cook.

“The Gipsy eye, bright as the starThat sends its light from heaven afar,Wild with the strains of thy guitar,This heart with rapture fill.Then, maiden fair, beneath this star,Come, touch me with the light guitar.Thy brow unworked by lines of care,Decked with locks of raven hair,Seems ever beautiful and fairAt moonlight’s stilly hour.What bliss! beside the leafy maze,Illumined by the moon’s pale rays,On thy sweet face to sit and gaze,Thou wild, uncultured flower.Then, maiden fair, beneath this star,Come, touch me with the light guitar.”

Hubert Smith: “Tent Life in Norway.”

“From every place condemned to roam,In every place we seek a home;These branches form our summer roof,By thick grown leaves made weather-proof;In shelt’ring nooks and hollow ways,We cheerily pass our winter days.Come circle round the Gipsy’s fire,Come circle round the Gipsy’s fire,Our songs, our stories never tire,Our songs, our stories never tire.”—Reeve.

“Where is the little Gipsy’s home?Under the spreading greenwood tree,Wherever she may roam,Wherever that tree may be.Roaming the world o’er,Crossing the deep blue sea,She finds on every shore,A home among the free,A home among the free,Ah, voilà la Gitana, voilà la Gitana.”—Halliday.

“He checked his steed, and sighed to markHer coral lips, her eyes so dark,And stately bearing—as she had beenBred up in courts, and born a queen.Again he came, and again he came,Each day with a warmer, a wilder flame,And still again—till sleep by nightFor Judith’s sake fled his pillow quite.”—Delta.

“A race that lives on prey, as foxes do,With stealthy, petty rapine; so despised,It is not persecuted, only spurned,Crushed under foot, warred on by chance like rats,Or swarming flies, or reptiles of the sea,Dragged in the net unsought and flung far off,To perish as they may.”

George Eliot: “The Spanish Gipsies,” 1865.

“Help me wonder, here’s a booke,Where I would for ever looke.Never did a Gipsy traceSmoother lines in hands or face;Venus here doth Saturne moveThat you should be the Queene of Love.”

Ben Jonson.

“Fond dreamer, pause! why floats the silvery breathOf thin, light smoke from yonder bank of heath?What forms are those beneath the shaggy trees,In tattered tent, scarce sheltered from the breeze;The hoary father and the ancient dame,The squalid children, cowering o’er the flame?Those were not born by English hearths to dwell,Or heed the carols of the village bell;Those swarthy lineaments, that wild attire,Those stranger tones, bespeak an eastern sire;Bid us in home’s most favoured precincts traceThe houseless children of a homeless race;And as in warning vision seem to showThat man’s best joys are drowned by shades of woe.

“Pilgrims of Earth, who hath not owned the spellThat ever seems around your tents to dwell;Solemn and thrilling as the nameless dreadThat guards the chambers of the silent dead!The sportive child, if near your camp he stray,Stands tranced with fear, and heeds no more his play;To gain your magic aid, the love-sick swain,With hasty footsteps threads the dusky lane;The passing traveller lingers, half in sport,And half in awe beside your savage court,While the weird hags explore his palm to spellWhat varied fates these mystic lines foretell.

“The murmuring streams your minstrel songs supply,The moss your couch, the oak your canopy;The sun awakes you as with trumpet-call,Lightly ye spring from slumber’s gentle thrall;Eve draws her curtain o’er the burning west,Like forest birds ye sink at once to rest.

“Free as the winds that through the forest rush,Wild as the flowers that by the wayside blush,Children of nature wandering to and fro,Man knows not whence ye came, nor where ye go;Like foreign weeds cast upon Western strands,Which stormy waves have borne from unknown lands;Like the murmuring shells to fancy’s ears that tellThe mystic secrets of their ocean cell.

“Drear was the scene—a dark and troublous time—The Heaven all gloom, the wearied Earth all crime;Men deemed they saw the unshackled powers of illRage in that storm, and work their perfect will.Then like a traveller, when the wild wind blows,And black night flickers with the driving snows,A stranger people, ’mid that murky gloom,Knocked at the gates of awe-struck Christendom!No clang of arms, no din of battle roaredRound the still march of that mysterious horde;Weary and sad arrayed in pilgrim’s guise,They stood and prayed, nor raised their suppliant eyes.At once to Europe’s hundred shores they came,In voice, in feature, and in garb the same.Mother and babe and youth, and hoary age,The haughty chieftain and the wizard sage;At once in every land went up the cry,‘Oh! fear us not—receive us or we die!’”

Dean Stanley’s Prize Poem, 1837: “The Gipsies.”

A Gipsy’s van near Notting Hill, Latimer Road

In Part III. I have endeavoured, as well as I have been able, to show some of the agencies that have been set in motion during the last three centuries for and against the Gipsies, with a view to their extermination, by the hang-man, to their being reclaimed by the religious zeal and fervour of the minister, and to their improvement by the artificial means of poetry, fiction, and romance.  First, the persecution dealt out to the Gipsies in this, as well as other countries, during a period of several centuries, although to a large extent brought upon themselves by their horrible system of lying and deception, neither exterminated them nor improved their habits; but, on the contrary, they increased and spread like mushrooms; the oftener they were trampled upon the more they seemed to thrive; the more they were hated, hunted, and driven into hiding-places the oftener these sly, fortune-telling, lying foxes would be seen sneaking across our path, ready to grab our chickens and young turkeys as opportunities presented themselves.  Second, that when stern justice said “it is enough,” persecution hanging down its hands and revenge drooping her head, a few noble-hearted men, filled with missionary zeal, took up the cause of the Gipsies for a period of nearly forty years in various forms and ways at the end of the last and the commencement of the present century.  Except in a few isolated cases, they also failed in producing any noticeablechange in either the moral, social, or religious condition of the Gipsies, and with the death of Hoyland, Borrow, Crabb, Roberts, and others, died the last flicker of a flickering light that was to lead these poor, deluded, benighted heathen wanderers upon a road to usefulness, honesty, uprightness, and industry.  Third, that on the decline of religious zeal, fervour, and philanthropy on behalf of the Gipsies more than forty years ago the spasmodic efforts of poets, novelists, and dramatists, in a variety of forms of fiction and romance, came to the front, to lead them to the goal through a lot of questionable by-lanes, queer places, and artificial lights, the result being that these melodramatic personages have left the Gipsies in a more pitiable condition than they were before they took up their cause, although they, in doing so, put “two faces under one hat,” blessing and cursing, smiling and frowning, all in one breath, praising their faults and sins, and damning theirfewvirtues.  In fact, to such a degree have fiction writers painted the black side of a Gipsy’s life, habits, and character in glowing colours that, to take another 20,000 men, women, and children out of our back slums and sink-gutters and write the word “Gipsy” upon their back, instead of “scamp,” and send them through the country with a few donkeys, some long sticks, old blankets and rags, dark eyes, dirty faces, filthy bodies, short petticoats, and old scarlet hoods and cloaks, you would in fifty years make this country not worth living in.  It is my decided conviction that unless we are careful, and take the “bull by the horns,” and compel them to educate their children, and to put their habitations, tents, and vans under better sanitary arrangements, we shall be fostering seeds in these dregs of society that will one day put a stop to the work of civilisation, and bring to an end the advance in arts, science, laws, and commerce that have been making such rapid strides in this country of late years.

It is more pleasant to human nature to sit upon a stile on a midsummer eve, down a country lane, in the twilight, as theshades of evening are gathering around you, the stars twinkling over head, the little silver stream rippling over the pebbles at your feet in sounds like the distant warbling of the lark, and the sweet notes of the nightingale ringing in your ears, than to visit the abodes of misery, filth, and squalor among the Gipsies in their wigwams.  It is more agreeable to the soft parts of our hearts and our finer feelings to listen to the melody and harmony of lively, lovely damsels as they send forth their enchanting strains than to hear the cries of the poor little, dirty Gipsy children sending forth their piteous moans for bread.  It is more delightful to the poetic and sentimental parts of our nature to guide over the stepping-stones a number of bright, sharp, clean, lively, interesting, little dears, with their “hoops,” “shuttle-cocks,” and “battle-doors,” than to be seated among a lot of little ragged, half-starved Gipsy children, who have never known what soap, water, and comb are.  It is more in harmony with our sensibilities to sit and listen to the drollery, wit, sarcasm, and fun ofPunchthan to the horrible tales of blood, revenge, immorality, and murder that some of the adult Gipsies delight in setting forth.  It is more in accordance with our feelings to sit and admire the innocent, angelic being, the perfection of the good and beautiful, than to sit by the hardened, wicked, ugly, old Gipsy woman who has spent a lifetime in sin and debauchery, cursing the God who made her as she expires.  Nevertheless, these things have to be done if we are to have the angelic beings from the other world ministering to our wants, and wafting us home as we leave our tenement of clay behind to receive the “Well done.”

I will now, as we pass along, endeavour to show what the actual condition of the Gipsies has been in the past, and what it is at the present time, which, in some cases, has been touched upon previously, with reference to the moral, social, and religious traits in their character that go to the making up of aman—the noblest work of God.  The peculiar fascinating charms about them, conjured up byethnologists and philologists, I will leave for those learned gentlemen to deal with as they may think well.  I will, however, say that, as regards their so-called language, it is neither more nor less than gibberish, not “full of sound and fury signifying nothing,” but full of “sound and fury” signifying something.  They never converse with it openly among themselves for a good purpose, as the Frenchmen, Germans, Turks, Spaniards, or other foreigners do.  Some of the old Gipsies have a thousand or more leading words made up from various sources, English, French, German, Spanish, Indian, &c., which they teach their children, and use in the presence of strangers with a certain amount of pride, and, at the same time, to throw dust into their eyes while the Gipsies are talking among themselves.  They will in the same breath bless you in English and curse you in Romany; this I experienced myself lately while sitting in a tent among a dozen uninteresting-looking Gipsies, while they one and all were thanking me for taking steps to get the children educated.  There was one among them who with a smile upon his face, was cursing me in Romany from his heart.  Many writers differ in the spelling and pronunciation of Gipsy words, and what strikes me as remarkable is, the Gipsies themselves are equally confused upon these points.  No doubt the confusion in the minds of writers arises principally from the fact that they have had their information from ignorant, lying, deceiving Gipsies.  Almost all Gipsies have an inveterate hatred and jealousy towards each other, especially if one sets himself up as knowing more than John Jones in the next yard.  One Gipsy would say paanengro-gújo means sailor, or water gentile, another Gipsy would say it means an Irishman, or potato gentile; another would say poovengri-gújo meant a sailor; another would say it means an Irishman.  They glory in contradictions and mystification.  I was at an encampment a few days ago, and out of the twenty-five men and women and forty children there werenot three that could talk Romany, and there was not one who could spell a single word of it.  Their language, like themselves, was Indian enough, no doubt, when they started on their pilgrimage many centuries ago; but, as a consequence of their mixing with the scum of other nations in their journey westward, the charm in their language and themselves has pretty nearly by this time vanished.  If I were to attempt to write a book about their language it would not do the Gipsies one iota of good.  “God bless you” are words the Gipsies very often use when showing their kindness for favours received, and, as a kind of test, I have tried to find out lately if there were any Gipsies round London who could tell me what these words were in Romany, and I have only found one who could perform the task.  They all shake their heads and say, “Ours is not a language, only slang, which we use when required.”  Taking their slang generally, according to Grellmann, Hoyland, Borrow, Smart, and Crofton, there is certainly nothing very elevating about it.  Worldliness, sensuality, and devilism are things helped forward by their gibberish.  Words dealing with honesty, uprightness, fidelity, industry, religion, cleanliness, and love are very sparse.

William Stanley, a converted Gipsy, said, some years since, that “God bless you” was in Romany, Artmee Devillesty; Smart and Crofton say it is, Doòvel, pàrav, pàrik toot, toòti.  In another place they say it is Doovel jal toosà.  Mrs. Simpson says it is, Mi-Doovel-kom-tooti.  Mrs. Smith says it is Mi-Doovel Andy-Paratuta.

The following are the whole of the slang words Smart and Crofton have under the letters indicated, and which words are taken principally from Grellmann, Hoyland, Borrow, and Dr. Paspati:—

I,

Man, mè, màndi, mànghi.

Ill,

Nàsfelo, nàffelo doosh.

Illness,

Nàffelopén.

Ill-tempered,

Kòrni.

Imitation,

Foshono.

Immediately,

Kenàw sig.

In,

Adrè, dre, ando, inna.

Indebted,

Pazerous.

Inflame,

Katcher.

Injure,

Dooka.

Inn,

Kítchema.

Innkeeper,

Kitchemèngro.

Intestine,

Vénderi.

Into,

Andè, adrè, drè.

Ireland,

Hindo-tem, Hinditemeskro-tem.

Irishman,

Hindi-temengro, poovengri gaujo.

Irish Gipsy,

Efage.

Iron,

Sáster, saàsta, saáshta.

Iron,

Sástera.

Is,

See.

It,

Les.

Itch,

Honj.

Jail,

Stèripen.

Jews,

Midùvelesto-maùromèngri.

Jockey,

Kèstermèngro.

Judgment,

Bitchama.

Jump,

Hokter hok òxta.

Jumper,

Hoxterer.

Just now,

Kenaw sig.

Justice of the peace,

Chivlo-gaujo, chuvno-gaùjo, pòkenyus, poòkinyus.

Keep,

Righer, riker.

Kettle,

Kekàvvi, kavvi.

Key,

Klèrin klisin.

Kick,

Del, dé.

Kill,

Maur.

Kin,

Simènsa.

Kind,

Komelo komomuso.

King,

Kràlis.

Kingdom,

Kralisom tem.

Kiss,

Chooma.

Knee,

Chong, choong.

Knife,

Choori chivomèngro chinomèngro.

Knock,

Koor, dè.

Know,

Jin.

Knowing,

Yoki, jinomengro, jinomeskro.

Quarrel,

Chíngar.

Quarrel,

Chingariben, gòdli.

Quart,

Troòshni.

Queen,

Kralisi krailisi.

Quick,

Sig.

Quick, Be,

Sigo toot, rèssi toot kair àbba.

Quietly,

Shookàr.

The following dozen words will show, in some degree, the fearful amount of ignorance there is amongst them, even when using the language of their mother country, for England is the mother country of the present race of Gipsies.  For—

Expensive,

Expencival.

Decide,

Cide.

Advice,

Device.

Dictionary,

Dixen.

Equally,

Ealfully.

Instructed,

Indistructed.

Gentleman,

Gemmen.

Daunted,

Dauntment.

Spitefulness,

Spiteliness.

Habeas Corpus,

Hawcus paccus.

Increase,

Increach.

Submit,

Commist.

I cannot find joy, delight, eternity, innocent, ever, everlasting, endless, hereafter, and similar words, and, on inquiry, I find that many of the Gipsies do not believe in an eternity, future punishment, or rewards; this belief, no doubt, has its effects upon their morals in this life.

The opinion respecting the Gipsy language at the commencement of the present century was, that it was composed only of cant terms, or of what has been called the slang of beggars; much of this probably was promoted and strengthened by the dictionary contained in a pamphlet, entitled, “The Life and Adventures of Bamfylde Moore Carew.”  It consists for the most part of English words trumped up apparently not so much for the purpose of concealment as a burlesque.  Even if used by this people at all, the introduction of this cant and slang as the genuine language of the community of Gipsies is a gross imposition on the public.

Rees, in his Encyclopædia, 1819, describes the Gipsies as “impostors and jugglers forming a kind of commonwealth among themselves, who disguise themselves in uncouth habits, smearing their faces and bodies, and framing to themselves a canting language, wander up and down, and under pretence of telling fortunes, curing diseases, &c., abuse the common people, trick them of their money, and steal all that they come at.”

Mr. Borrow, speaking of the Hungarian Gipsies in his “Zyncali,” page 7, says:—“Hungary, though a country not a tenth part so extensive as the huge colossus of the Russian empire, whose Czar reigns over a hundred lands, contains perhaps as many Gipsies, it not being uncommon to find whole villages inhabited by this race.  They likewise abound in the suburbs of the towns.

“In Hungary the feudal system still exists in all its pristine barbarity.  In no country does the hard hand of oppression bear so heavy upon the lower classes—not even in Russia.  The peasants of Russia are serfs, it is true, but their conditionis enviable compared with that of the same class in the other country; they have certain rights and privileges, and are, upon the whole, happy and contented, at least, there, whilst the Hungarians are ground to powder.  Two classes are free in Hungary to do almost what they please—the nobility and the Gipsies (the former are above the law, the latter below it).  A toll is wrung from the hands of the hard working labourers, that most meritorious class, in passing over a bridge, for example, at Perth, which is not demanded from a well-dressed person, nor from Zingany, who have frequently no dress at all, and whoseinsouciancestands in striking contrast with the trembling submission of the peasants.  The Gipsy, wherever you find him, is an incomprehensible being, but nowhere more than in Hungary, where in the midst of slavery he is free, though apparently one step lower than the lowest slave.  The habits of the Hungarian Gipsies are abominable; their hovels appear sinks of the vilest poverty and filth; their dress is at best rags; their food frequently of the vilest carrion, and occasionally, if report be true, still worse: thus they live in filth, in rags, in nakedness.  The women are fortune-tellers.  Of course both sexes are thieves of the first water.  They roam where they list.”

The “Chronicle of Bologna,” printed about the year 1422, says:—“And of those who went to have their fortunes told few there were who had not their purses stolen, or some portion of their garments cut away.  Their women also traversed the city six or eight together, entering the houses of the citizens, and diverting them with idle talk while one of the party secured whatever she could lay her hands upon.  In the shops they pretended to buy, but in fact stole.  They were amongst the cleverest thieves that the world contained.  Be it noted that they were the most hideous crew ever seen in these parts.  They were lean and black, and ate like pigs.  The women wore mantles flung upon one shoulder, with only a vest underneath.”  Forli, who wrote about them about thesame time as the “Chronicle of Bologna,” does not seem to have liked them, and says they were not “even civilised, and resembling rather savage and untamed beasts.”

A writer describes a visit to a Gipsy’s tent as follows:—“We were in a wigwam which afforded us but miserable shelter from the inclemency of the season.  The storm raged without; the tempest roared in the open country; the wind blew with violence, and whistled through the fissures of the cabin; the rain fell in torrents, and prevented us from continuing our route.  Our host was an Indian with sparkling and intelligent eyes, clad with a certain elegance, and wrapped majestically in a large fur cloak.  Seated close to the fire, which cast a reddish gleam through the interior of the wigwam, he felt himself all at once seized with an irresistible desire to imitate the convulsion of nature, and to sing his impressions.  So taking hold of a drum which hung near his bed, he beat a slight rolling, resembling the distant sounds of an approaching storm, then raising his voice to a shrill treble, which he knew how to soften when he pleased, he imitated the whistling of the air, the creaking of the branches dashing against one another, and the particular noise produced by dead leaves when accumulated in compact masses on the ground.  By degrees the rollings of the drum became more frequent and louder, the chants more sonorous and shrill; and at last our Indian shrieked, howled, and roared in the most frightful manner; he struggled and struck his instrument with extraordinary rapidity; it was a real tempest, to which nothing was wanting, not even the distant howling of the dogs, nor the bellowing of the affrighted buffaloes.”

Mr. Leland, speaking of the Russian Gipsies near Moscow, says that after meeting them in public, and penetrating to their homes, they were altogether original, deeply interesting, and able to read and write, and have a wonderful capacity for music, and goes on to say that he speedily found the Russian Gipsies were as unaffected and childlike as theywere gentle in manner, and that compared with our own prize-fighting, sturdy, begging, and always suspecting Gipsy roughs, as a delicate greyhound might compare with a very shrewd old bulldog trained by a fly tramp.  Leland, in his article, speaking of one of the Russian Gipsy maidens, says:—“Miss Sarsha, who had a slight cast in one of her wild black eyes, which added something to the Gipsiness and roguery of her smiles, and who wore in a ring a large diamond, which seemed as if it might be the right eye in the wrong place, was what is called an earnest young lady, and with plenty to say and great energy wherewith to say it.  What with her eyes, her diamond, her smiles, and her tongue, she constituted altogether a fine specimen of irrepressible fireworks.”

Leland, referring to the musical abilities of the Russian Gipsies, in his article in “Macmillan’s Magazine,” November, 1879, says:—“These artists, with wonderful tact and untaught skill have succeeded in all their songs in combining the mysterious and maddening chorus of the true wild eastern music with that of regular and simple melody intelligible to every western ear.”  “I listened,” says Leland, “to the strangest, wildest, and sweetest singing I ever had heard—the singing of Lurleis, of syrens, of witches.  First, one damsel, with an exquisitely clear, firm voice began to sing a verse of a love ballad, and as it approached the end the chorus stole in, softly and unperceived, but with exquisite skill, until, in a few seconds, the summer breeze, murmuring melody over a rippling lake, seemed changed to a midnight tempest roaring over a stormy sea, in which the basso of the black captain pealed like thunder, and as it died away a second girl took up the melody, very sweetly, but with a little more excitement—it was like a gleam of moonlight on the still agitated waters—a strange contralto witch gleam, and then again the chorus and the storm, and then another solo yet sweeter, sadder, and stranger—the movement continually increasing, until all was fast, and wild,and mad—a locomotive quick step and then a sudden silence—sunlight—the storm had blown away;” and adds, “I could only think of those strange fits of excitement which thrill the Red Indian, and make him burst into song.”

“After the first Gipsy lyric then came another to which the captain especially directed my attention as being what Sam. Petalengro calls ‘The girl in the red chemise’—as well as I can recall his words.  A very sweet song, with a simple but spirited chorus, and as the sympathetic electricity of excitement seized the performers we were all in a minute going down the rapids in a spring freshet.  ‘Sing, sir, sing!’ cried my handsome neighbour, with her black Gipsy eyes sparkling fire.”

Some excuse ought to be made for Leland getting into this wild state of excitement, for he had on his right and on his left, before and behind him, dark-eyed Gipsy beauties—as some would call them—among whom was one, the belle of the party, dressed in black silk attire, wafting in his face the enchanting fan of fascination till he was completely mesmerised.  How different this hour’s excitement to the twenty-three hours’ reality!

The following is the full history of a remarkable case which has recently occurred in Russia, taken from the London daily papers last November, and it shows the way in which Gipsy witches and fortune-tellers are held and horribly treated in that country.  It is quite evident that Gipsies and witches are not esteemed by the Russians like angels:—

Agrafena Ignatjewa was as a child simple and amiable, neither sharper nor more stupid than all the other girls of her native village, Wratschewo, in the Government of Novgorod.  But the people of the place having, from her early youth, made up their minds that she had the “evil eye,” nothing could eradicate that impression.Being branded with this reputation, it naturally followedthat powers of divination and enchantment were attributed to her, including the ability to afflict both men and animals with various plagues and sicknesses.In spite, however, of the supernatural skill with which she was credited, she met with no suitor save a poor soldier.  She accepted him gladly, and going with him, shortly after her marriage, to St. Petersburg, Wratschewo lost sight of her for some twelve years.  She was, however, by no means forgotten there, for when, after the death of her husband, she again betook herself to the home of her childhood, she found that her old reputation still clung to her.  The news of her return spread like wild-fire, and general disaster was anticipated from her injurious spells.  This, however, was, from fear, talked of only behind her back, and dread of her at length reached such a pitch that the villagers and their wives sent her presents and assisted her in every way, hoping thereby to get into her good graces, and so escape being practised upon by her infernal arts.  As she was now fifty years of age, somewhat weakly, and therefore unable to earn a living, these attentions were by no means unwelcome, and she therefore did nothing to disabuse her neighbours’ minds.  Their superstition enabled her to live comfortably and without care, and she knew very well that any assurances she might give would not have produced the slightest effect.A short time after her return to Wratschewo, several women fell ill.  This was, of course, laid at the door of Ignatjewa, particularly as one of these women, the daughter of a peasant, had been attacked immediately after being refused a slight favour by her.  Whenever any misfortune whatsoever happened in the village, all fingers pointed to Ignatjewa as the source of it.  At the beginning of the present year a dismissed soldier, in the interest of the community, actually instituted criminal proceedings against her before the local urjadnik, the chief of the police of the district, the immediate charge preferred being that she had bewitched his wife.Meanwhile the feeling in the village against her became so intensified that it was resolved by the people, pending the decision on the complaint that had been lodged, to take the law into their hands so far as to fasten her up in her cottage.The execution of this resolve was not delayed a moment.  Led by Kauschin, Nikisorow, Starovij, and an old man of seventy, one Schipensk, whose wife and daughters were at the time supposed to be suffering from her witchcraft, a crowd of villagers set out on the way to Ignatjewa’s dwelling.  Nikisorow had provided himself with hammer and nails, and Iwanow with some chips of pinewood “to smoke out the bad spirits.”  Finding the cottage door locked, they beat it in, and while a portion of them nailed up the windows the remainder crowded in and announced to the terrified woman that, by unanimous decision, she was, for the present, to be kept fastened up in her house.  Some of them then proceeded to look through the rooms, where they found, unfortunately, several bottles containing medicaments.  Believing these to be enchanted potions, and therefore conclusive proofs of Ignatjewa’s guilt, it was decided, on the suggestion of Nikisorow, to burn her and her devilish work there and then.  “We must put an end to it,” shouted the peasants in chorus; “if we let her off now we shall be bewitched one and all.”Kauschin, who held in his hand a lighted chip of pine-wood, which he had used “to smoke out the spirits” and to light him about the premises, instantly applied it to a bundle of straw lying in a room, after which all hastily left.  Ignatjewa attempted in vain to follow them.  The agonised woman then tried to get out at the windows, but these were already nailed up.  In front of the cottage stood the people, blankly staring at the spreading flames, and listening to the cries of their victim without moving a muscle.At this point Ignatjewa’s brother came on the scene, and ran towards the cottage to rescue his sister.  But a dozenarms held him back.  “Don’t let her out,” shouted the venerable Schipensk, the husband and father of the bewitched women.  “I’ll answer for it, that we won’t, father; we have put up with her long enough,” replied one of the band.  “The Lord be praised!” exclaimed another, “let her burn away; she bewitched my daughters too.”The little room in which Ignatjewa had taken refuge was not as yet reached by the fire.  Appeals were now made to her to confess herself a witch, the brother joining, probably in the hope that if she did so her life might be spared.  “But I am entirely innocent,” the poor woman cried out.  One of the bystanders, apparently the only one in possession of his five senses, made another attempt at rescue, but was hindered by the mob.  He then, in loud tones, warned them of the punishment which would certainly await them, but in vain, no attention was paid to him.  On the contrary, the progress of the flames not appearing rapid enough, it was endeavoured to accelerate it by shoving the snow from the roof and loosening the frame-work.  The fire now extended rapidly, one beam after another blazed up, and at length the roof fell in on the wretched woman.The ashes smouldered the whole night; on the following morning nothing was found remaining but the charred bones of Ignatjewa.The idea now, it would seem, occurred to the murderers that perhaps, after all, their action had not been altogether lawful.  They accordingly resolved to bribe the local authority, who had already viewed the scene of the affair, to hush it up.  For this purpose they made a collection, and handed him the proceeds, twenty-one roubles ninety copecks.  To their astonishment he did not accept the money, but at once reported the horrible deed to his superior officer.  Sixteen of the villagers were, in consequence, brought up for trial at Tichwin before the district court of Novgorod on the charge of murdering Agrafena Ignatjewa, in the manner above described.After a protracted hearing with jury the following result was arrived at:—Kauschin, who had first set fire to the building; Starovij, who had assisted in accelerating the burning; and Nikisorow, the prime mover in the matter, who had nailed up the windows, were found guilty, and sentenced by the judge to some slight ecclesiastical penance, while the remaining thirteen, including the aged Schipensk—who had used his influence to prevent a rescue—went scot free.

Agrafena Ignatjewa was as a child simple and amiable, neither sharper nor more stupid than all the other girls of her native village, Wratschewo, in the Government of Novgorod.  But the people of the place having, from her early youth, made up their minds that she had the “evil eye,” nothing could eradicate that impression.

Being branded with this reputation, it naturally followedthat powers of divination and enchantment were attributed to her, including the ability to afflict both men and animals with various plagues and sicknesses.

In spite, however, of the supernatural skill with which she was credited, she met with no suitor save a poor soldier.  She accepted him gladly, and going with him, shortly after her marriage, to St. Petersburg, Wratschewo lost sight of her for some twelve years.  She was, however, by no means forgotten there, for when, after the death of her husband, she again betook herself to the home of her childhood, she found that her old reputation still clung to her.  The news of her return spread like wild-fire, and general disaster was anticipated from her injurious spells.  This, however, was, from fear, talked of only behind her back, and dread of her at length reached such a pitch that the villagers and their wives sent her presents and assisted her in every way, hoping thereby to get into her good graces, and so escape being practised upon by her infernal arts.  As she was now fifty years of age, somewhat weakly, and therefore unable to earn a living, these attentions were by no means unwelcome, and she therefore did nothing to disabuse her neighbours’ minds.  Their superstition enabled her to live comfortably and without care, and she knew very well that any assurances she might give would not have produced the slightest effect.

A short time after her return to Wratschewo, several women fell ill.  This was, of course, laid at the door of Ignatjewa, particularly as one of these women, the daughter of a peasant, had been attacked immediately after being refused a slight favour by her.  Whenever any misfortune whatsoever happened in the village, all fingers pointed to Ignatjewa as the source of it.  At the beginning of the present year a dismissed soldier, in the interest of the community, actually instituted criminal proceedings against her before the local urjadnik, the chief of the police of the district, the immediate charge preferred being that she had bewitched his wife.

Meanwhile the feeling in the village against her became so intensified that it was resolved by the people, pending the decision on the complaint that had been lodged, to take the law into their hands so far as to fasten her up in her cottage.

The execution of this resolve was not delayed a moment.  Led by Kauschin, Nikisorow, Starovij, and an old man of seventy, one Schipensk, whose wife and daughters were at the time supposed to be suffering from her witchcraft, a crowd of villagers set out on the way to Ignatjewa’s dwelling.  Nikisorow had provided himself with hammer and nails, and Iwanow with some chips of pinewood “to smoke out the bad spirits.”  Finding the cottage door locked, they beat it in, and while a portion of them nailed up the windows the remainder crowded in and announced to the terrified woman that, by unanimous decision, she was, for the present, to be kept fastened up in her house.  Some of them then proceeded to look through the rooms, where they found, unfortunately, several bottles containing medicaments.  Believing these to be enchanted potions, and therefore conclusive proofs of Ignatjewa’s guilt, it was decided, on the suggestion of Nikisorow, to burn her and her devilish work there and then.  “We must put an end to it,” shouted the peasants in chorus; “if we let her off now we shall be bewitched one and all.”

Kauschin, who held in his hand a lighted chip of pine-wood, which he had used “to smoke out the spirits” and to light him about the premises, instantly applied it to a bundle of straw lying in a room, after which all hastily left.  Ignatjewa attempted in vain to follow them.  The agonised woman then tried to get out at the windows, but these were already nailed up.  In front of the cottage stood the people, blankly staring at the spreading flames, and listening to the cries of their victim without moving a muscle.

At this point Ignatjewa’s brother came on the scene, and ran towards the cottage to rescue his sister.  But a dozenarms held him back.  “Don’t let her out,” shouted the venerable Schipensk, the husband and father of the bewitched women.  “I’ll answer for it, that we won’t, father; we have put up with her long enough,” replied one of the band.  “The Lord be praised!” exclaimed another, “let her burn away; she bewitched my daughters too.”

The little room in which Ignatjewa had taken refuge was not as yet reached by the fire.  Appeals were now made to her to confess herself a witch, the brother joining, probably in the hope that if she did so her life might be spared.  “But I am entirely innocent,” the poor woman cried out.  One of the bystanders, apparently the only one in possession of his five senses, made another attempt at rescue, but was hindered by the mob.  He then, in loud tones, warned them of the punishment which would certainly await them, but in vain, no attention was paid to him.  On the contrary, the progress of the flames not appearing rapid enough, it was endeavoured to accelerate it by shoving the snow from the roof and loosening the frame-work.  The fire now extended rapidly, one beam after another blazed up, and at length the roof fell in on the wretched woman.

The ashes smouldered the whole night; on the following morning nothing was found remaining but the charred bones of Ignatjewa.

The idea now, it would seem, occurred to the murderers that perhaps, after all, their action had not been altogether lawful.  They accordingly resolved to bribe the local authority, who had already viewed the scene of the affair, to hush it up.  For this purpose they made a collection, and handed him the proceeds, twenty-one roubles ninety copecks.  To their astonishment he did not accept the money, but at once reported the horrible deed to his superior officer.  Sixteen of the villagers were, in consequence, brought up for trial at Tichwin before the district court of Novgorod on the charge of murdering Agrafena Ignatjewa, in the manner above described.

After a protracted hearing with jury the following result was arrived at:—Kauschin, who had first set fire to the building; Starovij, who had assisted in accelerating the burning; and Nikisorow, the prime mover in the matter, who had nailed up the windows, were found guilty, and sentenced by the judge to some slight ecclesiastical penance, while the remaining thirteen, including the aged Schipensk—who had used his influence to prevent a rescue—went scot free.

The Spanish Gipsies, in Grellmann’s day, would resort to the most wicked and inhuman practices.  Before taking one of their horses to the fair they would make an incision in some secret part of the skin, through which they would blow the creature up till his flesh looked fat and plump, and then they would apply a strong sticking plaster to prevent the air escaping.  Wolfgang Franz says they make use of another device with an eel.  Grellmann says of the Spanish Gipsies in his day that dancing was another means of getting something; they generally practised dancing when they were begging, particularly if men were about the streets.  Their dances were of the most disgusting kind that could be conceived; the most lascivious attitudes and gestures, young girls and married women, travelling with their fathers, would indulge in, to the extent of frisking about the streets in a state of nudity.

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